A Brother's Promise
by MisplacedHyperQuill
Summary: Mycroft recalls memories with his dead brother through his trusty umbrella. Promise the story's better than this summary. Read and Review!


**My attempt at the brotherly love of the world's most intelligent siblings. No incest.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned** **Sherlock...yeah...you don't wanna know.**

Mycroft Holmes sat at his office desk, his trusted umbrella by his side. That umbrella had been with him through thick and thin; it was an item of sentiment. That was one of few differences he shared with his brother. They both swore against caring, at least on the outside; it was a weakness and with the lives they both led, everyone they _cared _for where immediate bull's eyes, however Mycroft did indulge himself with sentiment. Something his brother would never do.

That umbrella had been his trusted sidekick of sorts from his time as a chubby, intelligent young boy. Father was never one to take any punishment lightly. That contraption of plastic and metal had defended the boy against another whipping from a belt.

The neatly ironed man winced as he recalled that particularly painful memory. His father was someone not worth remembering. Mycroft stopped typing his highly confidential letter that would probably stop another war and picked up the worn object, examining the scratched black handle. One particular gash caused the emotionless man to break out a small smile. It was a memoir of one of the few happy memories from his childhood; this on involving his baby brother.

As young boys, Mycroft had always been in shape. Round, in fact, was a shape. Sherlock had inherited the looks, while his older brother was left with the inner beauty. Until, of course, he became the British Government.

Sherlock loved picking on his older brother. Despite the fact that Mycroft was almost five years his brother's senior, his words always affected the insecure boy.

"_How's the diet, My?" snickered an adorable, handsome six year old Sherlock, who decided that when Mycroft was trying to read under a tree, it was a good time to take a jab at him. The overcast sky was darkening, and thunder rolled somewhere in the distance._

"_Fine _Sherly._ Now let's get going- it's about to pour." Muttered Mycroft, his face an emotionless mask as he picked up his trusted sidekick, only to have it snatched out of his big hands._

"_I got your umbrella My! I got it! Come and get it My! Come and get it!" Screeched a smug Sherlock as he clambered up the big oak behind Mycroft's back. The latter huffed- Sherlock knew he didn't climb trees._

"_Get down Sherlock. Mummy's going to be angry. Let's go- I don't want you getting hurt." Mycroft called up. Sherlock's head popped upside down._

"_I don't wanna!" yelled the small boy, in a horrendous singsong voice. This boy was a fast learner on his new baby violin, but was tone deaf to his cat screech singing voice. Mycroft, about to call out to his brother again, stepped backwards in shock as a _crack _sounded and a small black haired boy fell out the tree, screaming with Mycroft's umbrella waving around madly._

_Almost instantly, Sherlock had sat up and began wailing for Mummy, clutching his right arm to his chest. Mycroft hurried over to his brother to inspect the damage. A small, deep gash decorated the pale skin, the deep red blood slowly oozing out at a steady rate. Mycroft took out his favourite handkerchief and proceeded to rip it into a decent sized bandage._

"_No Mycwoft, NO!" Sherlock cried out, swatting his brother's hands away from from the cotton. Mycroft frowned incredulously at his brother._

"_What's the matter now?" Sherlock whimpered slightly._

"_It'z your favourite hanky, My. Don't destwoy it." The small boy sniffled. Mycroft smiled softly at the child in front of him._

"_It's okay Sherlock. I love you more than my hanky. You know why?" Sherlock sniffled and looked up at Mycroft, the tears slowing down._

"_Why?"_

"_Because, this handkerchief? There are so many more in the world that I can buy anytime. But little brothers are hard to come by. Especially ones like you. You are special to me Sherlock, no matter what or when, you will always be my priority okay? That's what big brothers do." He replied soothingly as he tied the white cloth over the gash, watching it stain red with Sherlock's blood. The injured boy sniffled and smiled, before looking to his right. Again, Sherlock began crying, pointing to the black umbrella. Mycroft walked over and picked it up. A long, white scratch had embedded itself on the otherwise flawless handle._

"_What's wrong now Sherlock?" he asked. The boy sobbed even more._

"_It's broken! I broke your umbrella and now you hate me!" cried Sherlock._

"_It's not broken Sherlock. See? It still works." Mycroft said, opening and closing the black object. It didn't help much._

"_But it's spoiled. And you hate me!" Mycroft sighed and kneeled in front of his skinny brother._

"_It's the imperfectness of this umbrella that makes it all the more perfect. If everyone and everything were perfect, the world would be dead boring. Much like Father." Mycroft said, smiling as Sherlock giggled slightly at his older brother's attempt at humour "And, I will never hate you. Quite the opposite, no matter what, I love you. Okay Sherlock?" he asked, looking in the boy's watery grey orbs. Sherlock nodded._

"_Promise you will never hate me, no matter what. Promise you will always love me." the future detective demanded. Mycroft chuckled at the firmness of his tone._

"_Of course. Cross my heart. I promise. Now let's go home." He said picking up the umbrella and holding his brother's hand before frowning at the bandaged wound._

_Stepping forward, he pulled down the long sleeve of Sherlock's shirt._

"_Let's not tell mummy. You don't want to get in trouble, right?" Mycroft asked, a smirk playing on his lips._

"_Thank you Mycwoft." Muttered the little boy, gripping his brother's hand._

Mycroft smiled, before setting down the umbrella again. He felt tears prick the ends of his eyes and he hastily swallowed them down, allowing the painful lump to settle in his throat. A knock sounded and a professionally clad woman stepped into the room, her Bluetooth in her ear and her Blackberry in her hand.

"It's time for you meeting Mr. Holmes." Said the young woman. Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you Anthea." He muttered watching her back retreat.

"I'll always keep my promise, brother. Wherever you are, come home soon." He said to his empty room, as if the man in question could even hear him. Mycroft stood up, straightened his grey suit jacket and strode out the room, umbrella in hand; the sign of the British Government.

In a stuffy motel, a young, blonde, man pressed escape on his laptop, allowing him to see not only the office room belonging to the civil worker, but also to an apartment belonging to a tired, blonde man, slowly coming to terms and moving on from a horrible tragedy; an ageing Detective Inspector, demoted to a desk sergeant from his rightful place; an old landlady in her alarming amount of purple; and a young, dark featured woman, sitting on her couch with a bottle of scotch gripped in her hands, her eyes red-rimmed from tears, fatigued from the burden of secrets on her shoulders.

A text bleeped on his phone. Checking the message, he smirked and laid one last look on the screen, drinking in all the people on the screen. Despite what he would say to the dinky room next, it might be the last time he saw them.

"Don't worry, brother. It'll be done soon. I'll be back home very, very soon."

That was true, Sherlock decided as he swept out the room. Either way, his body (alive or not) would be home in London in just a matter of a few days.

After a year and a half, it would be good to be home.

**Review? The text box down there is sad from the angst above. Cheer it up?**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**-Ash :)**


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